Contra Naturam
by onus.probandi
Summary: This is the full story I wanted to tell from the ficlet 'Promised You A Miracle'. After a promotion, DS Louise Gardiner becomes DCI Keats' ultimate threat. Has he created an impervious monster to topple his dominion? Please read & review!
1. Ad hominem

He didn't have to work that hard. She was already his, from the moment her soul entered his body, the game beginning the second he offered his gloved hand to her on an empty, deserted street soon after. Months and months had gone by, her slowly forgetting the past once again and her memory now only of two things: the present, and the future. Her situation could almost be described as a form of indentured slavery, but only all-consuming, and the consumption done solely by him.

She'd begun life at Fenchurch West as Detective Constable Louise Gardiner, but would become so, so much more. She'd started, like all the others, on secondment to his department, the Serious Crime Division. Others that had been groomed by him as prototypes for his vision, resulting in disappointment; so many souls, so many abject failures. Jim Keats sat alone at the desk in his office with the door closed, oblivious to the buzz happening just outside within SCD. His mind didn't wander often; he didn't allow it. He normally operated on few speeds: precision, organisation, and in accordance with the law. Well, that is to say, his law, which was by no means fair, and by no means lawful, but no one ever seemed to notice. He chuckled briefly at the thought before it passed and a litany of failed projects took its place. DC Abbie Michaels...DC Kate Janis...DS Robbie Cleves...Sergeant Viv James...DI Geoff Bevan...even DCI Derek Litton had fallen short. He had expected so much from this department, and it seemed all they were capable of was holding up the bar at the clubhouse night after night, only to turn around and hand in mediocre performances the following day. Keats shook his head, the anger fuming within.

Abbie Michaels had held the most promise; her arrogant, narcissistic nature making her a shoo-in for Keats' ultimate perversion-the perfect, sex-on-wheels corrupt copper who'd do anything for a collar. Oh, the transformation had been so much fun to watch: her deadened, ash-blonde hair turning into a coiffed, brassy 'do, her pantsuits morphing into miniskirts, her skin now a beautiful, yet heavily-made up shade of porcelain. Her lips became highly-glossed, almost like glass, and her enviable figure had men across the department lusting after her. She'd been Keats' favourite toy. That is, until her behaviour became obnoxious; Keats had initially been amused at her barroom antics, but later on it had become a stinging bee in his bonnet. She was, simply, nothing but an empty-headed whore. His dismissal of her, both professionally and physically, had devastated her to the point of insanity; he eventually had her sectioned in order to rid himself of her horrible taste. No one in SCD knew what his sort of 'sectioning' was; no one dared ask. However, her screams from the depths of the very bowels of Fenchurch West, along with those of others could be heard every time the lift opened. No one could bear it; taking the stairs was the only palatable alternative.

But, Louise-his lovely, lovely, broken Louise. She was so lost; her pain, her confusion palpable and so exquisite. It had been so easy to recruit her to him exclusively under the guise of false salubriousness. His seduction made her even more dependent on him for not only physical pleasure, but for the entirety of her self-worth and confidence level. No one before her had exhilarated him to this extent. She was addicted to him; every fiber of her being clung to whatever scraps of positivity he threw in her direction. The control that she gave him was so willing and laughably trusting. Keats closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, betraying his level of arousal at the thought. One touch of his fingers stroking her cheek made her nearly cry out for satiation, and he looked forward to every gasp, every moan he could elicit without ever touching her. Their liaisons were surreptitious; however, it was an assumed, unspoken understanding amongst the team. The level of gossip, backstabbing, jealousy and general busybody quality of conversation within SCD was unparalleled and un-policed. It couldn't have been a less-professional group. But this was Keats' world; a paragon of debauchery and hedonism and a vacuous black hole of immorality. Anything went; that was, until he disagreed or deemed something against his own code. It was the ultimate oxymoron.

His head turned to gaze out the glass window of his office at his subordinates. They were semi-adequate drones-never questioning, always doing, but all of that stopped once lunch o'clock hit. Getting pissed in the clubhouse was the only salve, and the next morning it was back to their Orwellian universe.

Keats' interest was suddenly piqued as Louise Gardiner, herself now a Detective Sergeant, walked in, placing her materials on the desk right outside his office. His eyes danced over her. She had deserved that promotion; no one needed knowing how she got it. Smirking to himself, he got up out of his seat and walked the few short paces to the door, composing himself before opening it.

"Louise?" His voice was abrupt and made her whirl around, startled.

"Yes, Guv," she replied in earnest, her eyes wide.

"A word," he said, offering a small, congenial smile as he stepped aside, allowing her to pass through the doorway first before closing it behind him, shuttering the blinds.

His tone changed as soon as the door locked into place.

"Do you know what happened to the files on the Hackney grocery clerk assailant? They were supposed to have been handled by DC Janis on your watch, and nothing has landed on my desk in 24 hours. I'd hate to think this new position is causing you stress..." Keats put both hands on each of her shoulders and steadied her, staring bullets, studying her next reaction. Would she stammer? Would she rise to the occasion? Would she crumble? His fingers caressed the fabric of her blouse as one hand slid to the base of her neck, causing her breath to catch.

"I do apologise, sir; Janis was to have had that to me this morning and, as usual, it hasn't shown up, and 'coincidentally', neither has she," Louise replied breezily.

"FIND HER. Hung over or not. I don't care what you have to do to get her to complete that report; GET IT you understand, DS Gardiner? This is the time to exert your authority, and I expect 110 per cent every time. Are we clear?" His tone was dictatorial, but his eyes were flames. Her eyes narrowed.

"Crystal clear, sir." With that, she nodded at him curtly and coldly brushed by him on her way out. Keats studied her eerily, his mouth slightly open as he took her in. Had she even begun to notice the changes? He laughed to himself; they never did. Memories of themselves 'before' were washed further and further out to sea with each passing day; as such, their appearances changing, conforming to his idea of perfection, were hardly topics of interest. As long as he could keep their brains washed with nothing but police work and alcohol, the façade would remain intact.

Louise had begun just like the other pathetic 'recruits' he stole from their former selves and former lives-downtrodden, an entertaining lack of self-esteem, and an inspiring amount of emotional baggage. Most importantly, she possessed the one thing that attracted souls to him: the innate capability to commit acts of internal crime because they lacked the courage to say no. Louise Gardiner ticked every last box. He almost felt sorry for her; almost.

But he looked at her now: her hair, once lifeless, was now a rich auburn; her clothing tasteful, but slowly becoming more revealing; her lips becoming fuller and less grey in appearance. However, what he saw most was the expression in her aquamarine eyes; it was almost cold. Her voice had been that of a mouse upon her arrival, her fear palpable; now, it was a solid alto that sometimes could carry an edge, and he couldn't wait to see what else she had in her. His spell over her was unbreakable; for once, he felt she might be the one to fulfill his legacy. He was in her blood.

DS Gardiner had fulfilled his request. Pulling Kate Janis' head from over the loo, she forced her to swallow down the alcohol-induced nausea as she completed her report in front of her. Without so much as a 'thank you', Louise stalked out of the flat with the signed paperwork, leaving DC Janis to her vomit-stained floor. The completed file was on Keats' desk by 3pm. How far she had come from those first days when, still remembering somewhat the torture she suffered during her undercover operation with the Stafford drug cartel, she was woefully incapable of conducting even a simple suspect interview. Even as the days passed and her memory quietly faded to black, she was still afraid of her own shadow to some extent. The self-satisfied smile on Keats' countenance was worth a thousand words as he cleaned his black-and-horn-rimmed spectacles with his pocket square. Tonight would be an enviable pleasure, he thought.


	2. Anguis in herba

At precisely 11:30pm, there was a knock at Louise's door. Looking up, she paused for a moment before removing her reading glasses and rising from her desk. Upon opening the door, she found an innocuous-appearing Jim Keats smiling broadly. Proffering a bottle of champers and two glasses, he laughed awkwardly.

"I hope it's not too late in the night for a small celebration; the Hackney case just blew wide open, thanks to your persistence in obtaining the delinquent pieces of the puzzle."

Louise stammered, bemused.

"I...erm...yes. Yes-absolutely. Cheers. Come in."

Keats breezed by her, setting the glasses on the desk and popping the cork on the champagne. Pouring them both a measure, he handed her a glass.

"To fantastic police work. Very well done, Ms Gardiner. More like this and I see yet another promotion in the near future. How would 'Detective Inspector' grab you, Louise?"

She smiled nervously and raised her glass.

"Thank you, sir. It sounds wonderful, actually. I hope I can deliver."

The smile faded from Keats' face and his eyes darkened as he gently put his glass down on the table, his eyes never leaving hers. Moving closer to her, he took the glass slowly out of her hand and set it on the table as well. He cupped her face with one palm, tipping her chin up slightly to face him.

"I have full confidence you won't betray my trust in you, Louise; am I right?"

His head tilted to one side as he studied her expression, his thumb tracing half-moons upon her cheekbone. Her lips parted as she drew in a shallow breath.

"Yes...," she replied.

He brought his other hand up under her earlobe, tracing line after line from the base of her neck to her collarbone. Louise felt lightheaded and swayed towards him, where his hands dropped to both hips and drew her in. He'd waited all day for this moment, for this surrender, for what he was creating within her once more.

"JIM..."

She breathed his name as she fell against his chest, his hands taking full possession of her, wandering to the small of her lower back and between her shoulder blades. He sighed, trying to stifle it as he closed his eyes. No one had ever had the inimitable gall to break title, and the sheer vulnerability breaking forth as she did it was both unnerving and oddly arousing.

"Yes, Louise...?"

He breathed the words, his fingers beginning to entwine themselves in her hair, tightening their grip upon the strands.

Her throat was tight; nothing came forth. It didn't need to.

She drew in a sharp breath as he firmly grasped the fistful of her locks. She couldn't help but to cry out in both pleasure and pain.

He couldn't hold on; watching her writhe as he lowered them both onto her bed with her back to his chest, he had no choice. Pushing Louise's skirt up above her knickers, he made haste in removing his belt. Moving over her, he tightened it around her wrists and forearms, eliciting a soft moan. Pushing the gusset of her knickers aside, he firmly grasped her curved hips and finally entered her with a vengeance. She cried out loud with pleasure, and he clamped his hand over her mouth, forcing her downwards, back towards the pillow. Her deep moans and panting were muffled, but would not cease. Keats lowered himself directly on top of her and the feeling of her skin against his took him by surprise. She lightly sunk her teeth into his hand; the feel of it all was making her explode. She felt his other hand shoot downwards and finally his fingers found her. The slow ebbing and flowing of her release building made her thrust against his hand, desperate for the needed friction. His thumb grazed her rhythmically again and again until she came so hard, so fast, her head buried in the crumpled sheets. He wasn't finished with her yet; pressing down upon her, he continued his slow assault, making her contain her voice as he whispered into her ear:

"You're my greatest triumph; your defeat is my happiest gain. You can't achieve anything without me. Look at you: I even control your orgasms," he said dryly, chuckling softly to himself before composing himself once again. "I'll never turn you loose, Louise, never."

His own end took him by surprise and a slight moan escaped his lips before he bit back the rest. Clenching his eyes shut, he finished, euphoric. He opened his eyes slowly, looking down on her, his victorious smile downgrading to a curious grin. Sighing heavily, he moved off of her and rose from the bed to zip up his trousers. Louise rolled over onto her back, thoroughly spent. Her cheeks glistened with small beads of sweat as her loose curls tumbled across the pillowcase. Keats looked at her, expressionless, taking his glasses from his breast pocket and putting them on.

"That was quite a performance, Louise," he said, the corner of his mouth turning up as he laughed softly. "Very good, indeed. You almost put as much effort into that as you do your job."

She gazed up at him coldly; oddly, she didn't seem intimidated. "I'm glad you agree, sir. The pleasure was all yours." She got up from the bed and walked over to the table to pick up her glass. Downing it in one, she didn't take her eyes off of him. Something clicked. Like a hand flickering on a cigarette lighter, Louise felt a strange rush of adrenaline that was alien to her. It wasn't fear. It wasn't lust. But it didn't feel like her; something had finally broken forth, and she had no immunity.

"I trust we'll pick this up in the morning? I have these intakes to process yet." She sat her glass down upon the desk and picked up her reading glasses before settling down upon the chair. Was that her voice? That clipped, abrupt monotone? A strange wave of worry washed over her for a split-second as lucidity took over and she realized this wasn't herat all; and then, just like that-it was gone.

He was in awe: was he being dismissed? "Sir, it's been lovely, but I do need to get these to the Chief Super before 8 o'clock tomorrow morning." She stopped, hesitating. What was he waiting for? Gathering up both ego and machismo, he straightened his tie. "Indeed. I don't need the Chief Super on my back due to a lazy, incompetent DS. Those had better be perfection, Louise. My satisfaction with you depends on it." She smirked and immediately began her work, effectively ending their conversation. Keats was taken aback; no one had done this before-no one had even attempted to 'equal' him. His was a legion of mice, and he was intent on keeping it that way; he wanted perfect automatons-not leaders. He was the one to lead, not be led. He glared in her direction and stalked out of her room. He'd have to contain her. He couldn't let the situation worsen. What had he done wrong this time? Why was she different? This had the potential to be more worrying than Abbie Michaels ever was. He silently willed the distressing feelings away for now; he had more pressing matters to attend to and a department to mentally bludgeon.

Jim Keats didn't sleep that night; he didn't need to. Not anymore. He hadn't the slightest recollection of the last time he'd succumbed to it. Of course not-who would remember one's own death and entrance into eternal slumber? He was in charge, the de facto leader of his department's grisly secrets-of each and every branch's grisly end. All itemized, notated, filed, and saved for a rainy day. He only knew that he was HERE. He was born here; he'd awakened like countless others, unaware of their own demise. Jim Keats had arrived at Fenchurch West 50 years earlier via a 'transfer request'. He did remember his past; but only once, and that day had passed long ago. The memory that his Chief Super had shown him on a crudely-taped Super 8 reel was of the twenty-something constable alone, bleeding in a very remote side alley, a gunshot wound to the head leaving his eyes wide-open and glazed over by death as unknown assailants ran from the scene. The ground was cold and wet: pools of still-tepid human blood had mixed with water and soot into a rusty paste. His body wouldn't be found until the following evening, and by then it was nearly unrecognisable: rats tended to gravitate towards decomposition. A warrant card, found inside the breast pocket of his uniform, was all that could be used to identify him the next day.

His memory had been effectively erased by his Boss after that perverse show, as Jim Keats was there for one reason and one reason only; his was a destiny had been chosen, predetermined, and the Chief Super couldn't risk the chance. As far as Keats knew now, he had auspiciously 'appeared' just when a failing department needed leadership; a lucky transfer and a new beginning. Memories, or the lack thereof, had never occurred to him. He'd relished the top-tier opportunity given, and after that, time ceased for him and everyone else. Real time, that was. Only one timetable would ever exist now. HIS.


	3. Terra incognita

Police Constable James Keats had entered the force hapless, and had left it defiled. His less-than-illustrious career was an aberrance that would define him up to that moment and for evermore. He'd had the misfortune to be taken under the wing of one of the most corrupt senior officers the Met had ever seen. He was seen as mutable, green, impressionable, ambitious, and someone who would take direction enthusiastically and without hesitation. Seduced by the power, perks, and the unspoken, yet auspicious 'brotherhood' that existed between those officers on the inside, he learned very early on that having important figures at one's back almost guaranteed a rapid ascension in rank. The backhanders were a beneficial footnote-the younger Keats had to admit he longed for a cushier lifestyle than the dingy bedsit he'd been forced to live in. He was so young, yet so self-possessed; in short, he was the perfect protégé… and pawn. The foolish lad had lost his life pocketing stolen jewels from a foiled blag for his mentor, who in turn was supposed to compensate him handsomely for his 'services'. Instead of rolling on his mattress that night, covered in pound notes, the skint bobby was met by random street thugs seizing an opportunity, leaving him to die hideously on that deserted street. It was precisely 9 o'clock on August 27th, 1935 when his heart beat for the final time. Unbeknownst to him, a shift was taking place, one that he had crafted for himself during his time on Earth, an eternal destiny shackling him link by link, strangling his essence not dissimilar from that of a doomed soul in a Dickens novel.

When he suddenly awoke several moments later, he didn't immediately know where he was. Rubbing his eyes, he looked wildly around him, his mouth slightly agape. The street was deserted and unfamiliar in the dusk; the automobiles parked on it were strange and angular, some with bright colours, all of them streaked with chrome. Keats looked at his hands in disbelief, turning them over and over slowly, as if to test whether this was truly real. Fingering the alien fabric of the clothing on his body, he knew they'd never been in his wardrobe. The slick, charcoal-grey coat upon him fell open at his sides to reveal a sharp, navy double-breasted suit and tie. The shoes on his feet were equally smart, their black leather gleaming in the dim light of the sunset. He felt taller-older, even. More strangely, what was this feeling of electricity and something much heavier that he couldn't quite articulate?

Getting up at last, stumbling in the midst of the fog swirling about him, he turned and realised he was standing outside his own police station. The pages of a newspaper flapped idly in the breeze as they drifted upon the pavement. Keats raced to one and lifted it up to meet his eyes: the date on it was October 21, 1957. He dropped the page in shock, moving away from it in horror as he looked upwards at the towering buildings, none of which had been there before. His hand flew to his mouth. This couldn't be possible. His entire body quaked, the adrenaline threatening to boil over. When he got his bearings once again, Keats tentatively walked towards the entrance. There had to be an explanation of some sort.

At that exact moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the double doors. His hands moved to his face in an instant: he indeed looked older, though still possessing a touch of his younger self. He had black, horn-rimmed glasses; _since when had his sight gone south?_ His hair was the color of night: jet-black waves that were meticulously groomed, each curl, each bend submitting in just the right fashion. His skin was smooth, completely devoid of stubble, and pale-so very pale; ethereal, even. He was, at least here, a vision of himself that even he couldn't have conjured from the depths of his imagination. He was authoritative-appearing, perhaps even calculating, and to Keats, this was the man he'd dreamt of becoming his whole life. Fumbling inside the pockets of his coat, he pulled out what appeared to be a warrant card. Flipping it open quickly, his eyes found the three letters of validation he'd longed to see since the commencement of his policing career: _D.C.I._ The rush he felt at that moment was unmistakable. It was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had erupted behind him in a blaze of sparks, as the conquering of Rome must have felt to Caesar, as watching it then burn to dust must have felt to Nero. Finding a new sense of confidence and leaving his misgivings at the double doors, he opened them with both hands and strode in with audacious pretension; any fear he'd felt had checked out. Wherever he had been, whoever he had been before, he would never be again. Whether it was madness, the product of a hallucination, or a dream, or even death, Jim Keats ceased to care. The darkness would follow him wherever he would venture from now on.

His ascension may have been immediate, but soon upon entering this kingdom, he would be answering to a much higher power, one that was as much of a duality as the one to whom Gene Hunt would bow. Even so, even with the eventual, horrific knowledge of where he had been before, in his mind he had ultimately gone through that to become so much more; the knowledge didn't horrify him as it would the others who had met similar fates. Everything past had been prologue to this; he was the Angel of Death made whole. He was a film noir creation of both beauty and terror, of monstrosity and licence; and all hidden behind an unobjectionable, amiable smile. He was the perfect vehicle for his Boss' ministrations.

However, as much as Jim Keats had the foresight for souls ripe for the taking, he hadn't anticipated what he would do to Louise Gardiner. His very undoing was now in her almost-capable hands, in her almost-vacant, inscrutable glance.


	4. Idus Martiae

He stole them for the same reason Gene Hunt held onto them to keep them safe. Perhaps the last vestige of humanity Keats possessed was the inability to be alone; however, here it was entirely self-serving and ego-feeding. The darkness is a barren and desolate dominion, and it suited Keats to build himself an arsenal, especially after crossing paths with Hunt for the very first time. It was a hatred he would never forget-a childish vendetta that he would carry to its last moment. One entity was useless alone, but the psychic energy of a hundred could overpower Gene Hunt's paltry, pathetic 'team'. Though the faces and the places would change hands many times, Hunt's following remained strong. Thus, Keats' end goal remained the same: each time a soul was absorbed into his own, his power would grow just that small amount more. Time and space were all too small for both of them to fit neatly within it, and he was megalomaniacal in his pursuit of the upper hand.

Charming, with enough detachment to keep them moving towards him and wanting his approval, he would use every means at his disposal to win them. With the men, it was one of two things: for the ones who knew their fate, it was the promise of life on their terms, of love, success and hedonism beyond their wildest dreams—and all for eternity. For those who didn't, it was the promise of promotions and wealth—much like he was at the hands of his former mentor. And in some cases, he just took them without consent, especially when he was desperate and feeling his power diminishing. He didn't care who they were, or even if they could benefit him in some way-they were simply batteries to keep him going. The women were another story. Beneath the scholarly, sort of unappealing 'headmaster' guise, there lurked an incredibly sexual, primal undercurrent. It emanated from within—from the way he walked and the nuances of his speech to the heat smouldering from his dark eyes. Many of them would grace not only his department but his bed, and it was a pleasurable way to spend what idle moments he had. Some of them were talented enough that he thought he could conform them into proper fortifications to carry out his work; however, most of them were vapid sluts that were nothing better than drones once discarded.

He had almost had perfection in the form of Alex Drake: highly intelligent, perceptive, pragmatic, and an even more envious form. He had desired her with every fiber of his being so much that it hurt and he would have to seek relief later on from any woman in his commission willing enough to be a receptacle. The fact that he lost her to Gene Hunt nearly did him in. This was more than a mere 'missed opportunity'. This was an equal, a partner, and the last piece of a very tangled puzzle. Together they would have been magic. The envy drove him to madness; he couldn't even seek solace in the other souls from CID he'd managed to swallow. Her soul was the one he would never conquer, and the loss was so insanity-inducing that it made him lose the plot and drop his carefully-constructed, cool exterior, allowing his true self to be known. As he watched her enter the Railway Arms, never to return, he vowed to kill him, to wipe him away from every surface his feet had ever touched. It wasn't enough to best Gene Hunt any longer; he wanted him dead.

When Louise Gardiner came into his life, he had seen a lost little girl who needed to be found, and he was utterly satisfied with how she bent to his every whim. He saw her as a plaything he'd not soon grow tired of. He'd not paid her much notice until after that chilled, black night when Alex walked out of his life forever. When he finally did, at first she was a mere distraction, much like the others, but he was spurred on by her contented submission, the way she shivered at the mere sound of his voice or from a glance. It soon electrified him to watch her completely at his will; and, it took every shred of self-discipline not to come simply by hearing her groan with both trepidation and pleasure at being tormented by his firm touch. She began to get him off nearly as much as Alex had-and this time, she was his. The fact that she was seeming to shift in character puzzled him, to say the least. What was happening to her? More importantly, what had he done wrong?

The truth would haunt him more than Alex's choice of Gene. The more desirable she was to him, a small part of him was falling away, only to be absorbed by her: it was entirely unbeknownst to her and entirely unanticipated by him. Put simply, he was losing ground every time he locked the door to her room, every time he possessed her. The answer was easy: he hadn't encountered someone like her in all the years he'd been here, only Alex, and he never gained the opportunity to snatch her away. Otherwise, this shift would have happened long ago in another timeline. Had he known this would occur, nothing would have stopped him from untangling from her immediately. He would rather spend his days settling for mediocrity and still at 100 per cent capacity than have to give any of it away. But, as it were, this realisation would not occur to Jim Keats, and soon he would find himself in a worse power struggle than he ever could have conceived between himself and Hunt. It was both ironic and laughable that the one thing that would do him in was something this base. Indeed, it was.

Louise walked into SCD the next morning expressionless; there was a strange look in her eyes that even the others noticed and were unsettled by. Focussing her attention as she watched Keats retreat into his office, he felt her eyes upon him and instinctively looked over his shoulder as the door slammed shut, her reflection in the window half-obscuring his. His breath caught for a moment-just a moment-before he shook it off, settling into his chair and opening up a file on his desk. He was going to nip this one in the bud. No matter how much he'd grown used to sleeping with her, he wouldn't tolerate anyone colouring outside the lines. The day came and went, Louise directing some of the minions of the team to look after this or that while Keats handed down orders for her to complete. At least she was still taking direction, he told himself. She did so, solemnly and obediently, all the while becoming more and more demanding of the other officers. When the day was through and everyone headed to the clubhouse to get pissed, Louise was still at her desk.

"DS Gardiner?" he called from his office.

"Sir," she replied.

"I just need to see you for a moment before you depart for the day."

His tone was cold and steely, and Louise quaked for an instant at the sharpness. She immediately rose from her desk and walked into the room. Keats slammed the door behind her and jerked the blinds shut, shoving her roughly against the wall, pinning her wrists behind her. She cried out in pain to no avail. His face was close enough for her to feel his mouth against her cheek as he hissed.

"Don't toy with me, Louise. "

His voice was hushed and shook with intensity, as he pulled away to look at her, his eyes blazing in fury. He moved away from her and she smoothed down the folds of her dress and the back of her hair. Her own eyes settled upon his and she replied in kind:

"I could be making the same insinuation to you, sir."

Her hand came up once again to brush a strand of hair from her face, and instantly he gripped her wrist, pulling her towards him.  
>She wrested herself free, and he was stunned as she nodded curtly at him and began to open the door. However, he was too quick for her and slammed it shut once more, this time locking it. Louise briefly shuddered; perhaps she'd gone too far. But when Keats whirled her around to face him, she slapped him across the face upon seeing his arrogant, imperious expression.<br>"How dare you block my way, you fear-mongering son-of-a-bitch?"

Her voice barked at him as if to cut him down.  
>He said no words, but the corner of his mouth curled up as he pushed her up against the bulletin board behind her, knocking it completely off of the wall as she struggled against him, taking her foot and knocking a short file cabinet onto his own. They both shook with ferocity as his office quickly became a battleground of littered papers, broken glass, and dented cabinets. Neither one was going to give in. Out of breath, Louise stopped for a second to recover, and Keats took full advantage, grabbing her by the neck and pinning her against the far window, which amazingly didn't shatter upon impact. She couldn't go on any longer. Furthermore, she didn't understand her actions; they appeared to be coming through her from someplace else, as if she was not in control of herself. She whimpered slightly in agony, tired and keen for the alien anger to leave her in peace.<p>

"Jim…"

Keats chuckled throatily; he had won.

His lips crashed down upon hers and she cried out in relief as she began to sink towards the floor with his body mirroring hers. The struggle had been a source of arousal for him, although he was pleased with its eventual conclusion. His hand moved from her neck to her auburn strands as he tore away her skirt with the other. Moving only to make haste with his zipper, he finally buried himself within her, a moan escaping from both of them as he whispered:

"Ohh, Louise….you make it so easy…."

The slightest hint of a smile turned her lips upwards for a moment, but she could say nothing. His forehead touched hers and his mouth, swollen and wet, covered hers once more as he drove into her with force, relentless. As his release began to build, he couldn't help himself; his hands moved up to the sides of her face, and his thumb began to tentatively stroke her cheek, slowly and gently. The action surprised Louise and her tongue plundered into his mouth even more ardently than before, making him come hot and fast, spilling into her, his breath completely lost. Feeling the fire enter her womb, Louise sighed in desire as she began to press him against her even more fully, her arms encircling his waist. She was so close, so very close; the friction was unbearable. Finally, his skin hit her at just the right place and her orgasm began to release, her groan loud as the itch was relieved at last. He didn't stifle her this time; rather, he was euphoric at the control he thought he'd regained. Her cries were proof that he'd succeeded where she had failed, and when he closed his eyes later that night, he actually slept.

Capitulation was a beautiful thing.


	5. Timor suus

The illusion was real—at least for now. With each passing day, she became more and more focused, more competitive, more resourceful. Her footsteps became stronger and more sure; within time, her colleagues became accustomed to her stalking, confident clip and always knew when she was within 20 feet. This almost always made them snap back into action, much like when Keats would do the same. He was quieter now, not as intrusive, but still a glowering presence. She was proving herself capable of handling a good amount of Keats' caseload, and her dogged tactics in one particular case led to a confession within the first 15 minutes of interrogation; this was a feat not many of the other officers in SCD could boast. Her fastidious organisational skills streamlined the majority of procedures on the Fenchurch West books, and her collar rate was in the upper echelon. A promotion was inevitable, and she had this end firmly in the crosshairs. Even more addling to her colleagues was how she never managed to get dirty. Louise Gardiner had the reputation of 'anything for a collar', but it was always notable how she never had to actually play the part. Rather, it was DCs Janis and Michaels, as well as other, even lesser officers, who had to don the tarty outfits, to pose as prostitutes and drug addicts during undercover sting operations. Louise would never stoop to that level. In this way, she was not unlike the Queen of Hearts to her knaves there within Keats' treacherous rabbit hole. She didn't care what happened to them; all that mattered was what was written within the pages of her CV. They were collateral damage; as long as the arrest was made, as long as she got the accolades and the approval of Keats, she was golden. When Abbie Michaels returned to the station with a black eye and a bloodied nose, Louise handed her a tissue and told her to clean herself up in the toilets before walking away, barely blinking an eyelash, but not before checking that no blood had wound up on her £500 Versace suit. She brushed her sleeve off distastefully before opening the double doors to go back to her desk, leaving Abbie in the hallway, staring hollowly into space.

The Chief Super had been witness to her actions all along. Keats had done a good job with this one. When Louise had first arrived, he was more than convinced that she'd be yet another in the long string of failures Keats had left behind. No one had filled the Detective Inspector post in decades. After the last one had 'moved on', so to speak, none had proved themselves worthy of the position. They'd all gotten there through misadventure of one sort or another; petty crime, lascivious behavior, taking bribes, embezzling funds, virtually anything. And some of these hadn't a chance to seek absolution before they perished. No choice had been given. Again, Keats had often stolen those for the energy he needed. Viv James had been contrite; one could see the pleading look in his eyes, the terror and horror of what he knew awaited him. Gene Hunt had been too late. Keats wasn't there to listen to a confession; he was starved, angry, and he was losing his one chance at destroying Hunt in the form of Alex. He knew she was slipping away from him and that his time would soon be up. Seeing the clock tick down to zero, Keats didn't allow Viv a shot at telling his Guv what he'd done, nor did he allow him to ask sincere forgiveness. He was stifled at every turn and blocked at every road. Keats was a pure glutton, and it is this brand of avarice which prevents a soul from meeting the light, or of even knowing the light exists.

To the end, Jim Keats had remained unrepentant in his corporeal life; the only idol he'd worshipped was a material one. His dream of a better life had transformed him into something ugly and sad. No funeral was held for him when he was buried, though his mother came to quietly visit the grave marker a few times a week to mourn the son she lost in more ways than one. It was his commitment to his crooked mentor and the crushed spirits of those whom he stepped on to gain an advantage that transformed those letters on his warrant card in the twilight when he'd awakened in his new world. He had demonstrated a willingness to obtain his goals no matter the cost, personal or public.

The Chief Super had predicted big things for Jim Keats upon his arrival, and now it looked ready to pay off in the form of Louise Gardiner. Already he was seeing signs that she exhibited strength of conviction; her timidity and mouse-like behavior had unfolded into a hardened, emotionless machine. He had no idea why she succeeded where others had failed, why the formerly meek seemed to have inherited the vast space. He looked at Keats and, even as he was approving in the turn of events that Keats had caused, he was disappointed nonetheless. It was almost as if he'd lost some of his edge, the hard, jagged surface that had cut so many and had demolished even more. It wasn't as if the Chief Super was oblivious to the phlegmatic relationship between Keats and Louise; but to him, it was almost as if Keats lost ground with each passing day. His orders grew less urgent; his anger less intimidating. The officers feared her more now. It wasn't as if Keats had developed a heart; it was more his apathy that disturbed his Boss. Apathy could destroy all that he'd built, all that he'd stood for-moreover, it threatened to dismantle the dominion around which the Chief Super had entrusted him. Making Louise Gardiner a Detective Inspector under Keats was a necessary, if not imperative move, at least as far as the Chief was concerned. Of course, the decision would prove to slaughter everything Jim Keats had held dear; everything he had done, every last deviance would soon be for naught.

The papers landed on Keats' desk the following evening, the blank line awaiting his signature, his approval of the promotion. He felt a rage that he'd never felt before; he felt usurped, duped into this agreement, and ultimately betrayed by her. _How had this happened? Since when had a promotion not been his to make?_ The Chief Super obviously was losing faith in him somehow; otherwise, he'd have left it to Keats to manage. The post hadn't been filled in decades, and he'd never had any intention on following through on his promise to Louise. Keats rushed to the toilets in a panic. Splashing cold water upon his face, he looked into the mirror, trembling as he smeared the droplets from his eyes and cheeks. A cold sweat began to wash across the back of his neck, and for perhaps the first time in this lifetime, he felt a tentative spark of fear.

_She had gotten into him._ His past, his present, and his future were in her hands. He'd have to regain himself somehow, and the only way he could would be to send her away; make her disappear.

His second thought was far more disturbing than the last: _he wasn't sure he wanted to._


	6. Veni, vidi, vici

Keats pulled his dignity together, straightening his suit and tie clip and smoothing his hair back into place. Ripping off a paper towel, he blotted the rest of the moisture from his face and turned to exit the lavatory.

"I trust the paperwork made it to your desk, sir?"

Keats glowered as soon as he opened the door, seeing the object of both his insecurity and rage suddenly before him. This was not an auspicious beginning to his week. Narrowing his eyes at Louise, he took off his glasses, and, cleaning them with a tissue, he replied breezily:

"This morning, yes. I was just getting ready to look them over. Seems the Chief Super's taken quite a shine to you, Louise..."

His voice trailed off as a calculating, haughty smirk replaced it.

"All the demands, all the manhandling, the grandstanding...and not one speck of snot on your expensive jacket. How do you do it, DS Gardiner?"

It was more of a statement than a question, and his mouth curled up condescendingly in her direction as he chuckled softly.

"So, is this your latest project, hmm?"

She stared at him motionlessly, like a deer in headlights as he stepped closer to her, lowering his mouth to her ear.

"You're a game-playing, upwardly-mobile whore, Louise; shall I tell him that in my reply when I sign off on your promotion? Shall I explain to him in great detail all the times you kneeled in front of me, begging me to touch you, allowing me to fuck you senseless, just so I could put your incompetent arse on a case instead of making you stay behind at your desk, fetching mugs of tea like a good girl?"

He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, moving away from her and repositioning his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose. Looking about him to make sure there was no one close by, Keats grabbed Louise and pushed her into the lavatory he'd just exited. She gasped in protest, trying to wrest free, but to no avail.

Keats positioned her in front of the large mirror above the sinks and put his hands on her shoulders. Taking one of them, he gently brushed back her auburn hair and caressed her cheek.

"Do you see the woman standing before you, Louise? LOOK AT HER. Take her in..."

His tone was hushed yet authoritative, and Louise had no choice but to assess her own reflection.

"_I MADE YOU._ Don't forget that, DS Gardiner. All this: the flowing, luminous curls; a perfect complexion; the expensive suits; an arrogant, almost laughable sense of authority; your now-insatiable thirst for a collar-all of it had been MY design. You'd still be a frightened, shrinking violet if I hadn't lent you a hand. And now you're using your newfound confidence to usurp MY authority? You're biting the hand that feeds you, Louise..."

The back of his hand softly touched her neck before moving downwards and settling upon her hip bone. She leaned backwards instinctively against him.

"Don't tell me you're going to throw away a lucrative career under my direction just because the Chief Super dangles a carrot in front of you? I've seen him do it before: it's his game. That position hasn't been filled in years-don't tell me it hadn't crossed your mind as to why he'd picked _you_? Please, you're hardly ready for it; he just wants you for himself-can't you see that?"

Louise watched as his hands traced a pattern back up her arms and turned her to face him. Cupping her face in his hands, he smoothed the worry lines creasing her countenance.

"You have to trust me, Louise; I've never let you down, have I? I've helped you find your true self, the woman you've always aspired to be; remember? The Chief Super is looking for someone on the inside-he doesn't trust me; he's not above the game. Do you want to be disappointed in yourself, Louise?"

She shook her head numbly. His dark brown eyes were locked upon hers and she could see them flicker with hunger and determination. Everything within her was malfunctioning; whatever had fixed her demeanour so frozenly was dying synapse by synapse. She cocked her head to one side and a bewlidered look began to spread across her face. All of a sudden she didn't know who she was, what she was, and it was draining the life from her. She felt dizzy and began to falter as every sensation began to converge, and he was right there to catch her; he always was.

"Let's get you home, Louise; you're not looking well."

She nodded slowly, and a triumphantly smug grin curled his mouth upwards as he draped his suit coat around her shoulders and led her home to her dormitory flat. She held tightly onto him the entire journey; she didn't want to be alone, and he was only too satisfied to acquiesce.

Louise arose in the middle of the night and drew the sheets to cover her as she scanned the room slowly. She caught his sleeping form out of the corner of her eye; dark lashes framing his closed eyes, his impossibly perfect ebony waves slightly askew with a few errant curls pressed against his skin. She smiled briefly. He was beautiful, younger, and almost vulnerable the way he appeared at that moment. _Who was he, really?_ she queried silently, reaching out her hand to lightly brush the skin of his cheek. He stirred slightly, and she immediately withdrew her hand. Slowly, trying not to wake him, she slid her robe over her body and stood up, walking to the large bath at the far end of the room.

Standing in front of the mirror, she stared at herself for a long while. Her hands moved to her face, touching it as if she weren't sure it existed or if she was even here at all. She felt odd; the adrenaline and the speed which had fueled her, building with every encounter they'd had, had subsided to a dull roar within her head. Her heart felt a painful stab as she'd come to the weak, uncomfortable realisation that she hated herself for what he'd created within her.

The irony of it was in his theft on that deserted pavement, on that clouded afternoon when all of CID stared in shock as he took over and did what needed to be done. As her breath became his, as he felt her enter him, she surrendered completely to his desire without question or struggle. Their eyes had locked on one another and she needed him to take the pain, the blood, the confusion from her. And he did, sealing her to him for eternity; it was a baptism of death and not of a life yet to be lived.

Louise craved feeling needed by him. It was almost co-dependent in the way they gravitated towards one another, and whether Keats wanted to admit it or not, his very actions by their nature proved a certain deprivation on his part. But for once, their union did not instill her with more alien mannerisms; she didn't feel that surge of ambition, that bloodlust he unwittingly transferred upon her every moment they were entangled. The rug had been swept from under her feet and she knew Keats was right about her doomed promotion; she didn't have it in her to be what they'd want-not capable enough to handle the venom they'd inject into her. She felt oddly safe.

Upon returning to bed, she slid underneath the covers next to him and nudged him onto his back; his eyes instinctively opened and he caught her staring intently at him. She reached out tentatively to touch his hair, and as she did so, she could feel him fighting for control. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and her lips covered his own as they langurously kissed; he couldn't stop himself. It was enough that he was even still here, in her flat; he was normally long gone by this point. She situated herself on top of him, and, feeling his obvious awakening, took control and made him enter her once again. The headiness of it made her sigh under her breath.

It made him wince and he laid motionless underneath her, but soon he was matching each slow thrust with one of his own until they moved rhythmically. Louise may have lost somewhat the fire of her career trajectory because of Keats' subtle manipulations, but in this area, she found herself languidly dominant as he finally moaned, allowing himself to feel pleasure at her direction.

He finally murmured her name, coming closer to his own end, writhing in the anticipation of the deeply satiating tingle of it.

'Louise...'

The tingles turned into hard throbs and finally melted into an aching orgasm; he shuddered, letting himself come both hard and painfully slow, her thrusting dictating the pace of his release. He bit his bottom lip, sweat pouring off of him as he finished, trying to stifle the cry that threatened to escape his lips.

No restraints had been used; no rough, nearly fully-clothed encounter, no struggle, no trepidation. The balance of power remained scarily chaotic, and to his abject horror, it was in a grave, almost-humanlike condition. He had surrendered. And worse, he'd liked it; every last torturous drop.

The fear commandeered him so fast that he sprung into action. Easing his way out of Louise's touch, he silently dressed, icily staring at her as she looked at him, bewildered. Straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair in an effort to re-tame it, he plucked his glasses from his pocket and putting them on as he threw her a derisive glance.

He was gone before she could comprehend what she'd done to earn it.

He knew what was to come and both dreaded and relished the mere thought.

**A/N: Music is what inspires me to create everything I write; it is who I am. The following is a short sampler of the playlist I have listened to while writing this story. Hopefully it can give you an insight into the mood and tone that's in my head as I write these characters. Sampler was made on Soundcloud using Audacity 1.3 and Ableton Live.**

**http: / soundcloud (dot) com / onus-probandi / contra-naturam-the-playlist**


	7. Respice finem

The next afternoon, Louise found herself in the archives, sent by Keats under the pretense that he needed her to dig up records on a serial rapist who had escaped from prison just days before. Keats had actually shuddered in revulsion as he placed the evidence for her to find. As much as he enjoyed the thrill of their horror, of all those who had come to pass before her, he'd almost hesitated with Louise. Still, he shook it off quickly; this was the only way he could regain control of the situation, and the only way he could be sure she would be bound to him forever. He couldn't think about semantics.

In Louise's mind, part of her found him familiar and strangely comforting; she could never place why she felt so drawn to him. Sometimes she'd look at him, much like she did the night before, wondering where her feelings came from or who exactly he was. She hadn't expected to become this close; physically, Keats wasn't her usual 'type', and it was very uncharacteristic of her to get involved with someone with such a chaotic, yet tightly-wound personality. But he had tapped into something in her subconscious that she didn't even know was missing, and soon found herself hanging on his every sentence. Keats had a way of doing that to people; it's what his ilk do.

However, those of 'his ilk' do not come equipped with a fail-safe; well, not one by design, anyway. Alex Drake had nearly destroyed him to the point that he disintegrated before all of CID in a fit of schizophrenic hysteria before trying one last time to snare her; however, he'd already laid all his cards onto the table and Alex was not a gullible woman. He'd thought he had won; the moment those ceiling tiles disappeared and only space remained was the most triumphant he'd felt in years. But it had been an empty act of showmanship as he made an utter fool of himself, dissolving onto the pavement outside, his serpentine hissing and growling putting to shame his tightly-buttoned exterior. As Gene Hunt stood watching Keats writhe on the ground burning from the inside out, Hunt caught flashes of the demonic presence in his visage. Brief, terrifying flashes of the beast inside obscured his human 'mask' and the pungent odor of sulphur emanated from his pores, nearly overcoming Hunt in their monstrosity. And then, as suddenly as his breakdown had occurred, Keats was re-absorbed into the dimension which claimed him, leaving Gene in the darkness to stare endlessly at the doors of light which had just welcomed Alex.

Sadly for Louise Gardiner, no matter how she'd tried to pass herself off as a talented, commended, rational officer, she was no match for Keats. There had been a time when even Alex had nearly succumbed to his impossible charm, but ultimately her heart was never to be his. Louise, on the other hand, was a slave to her own heart and her own desires, and as such, there was no mystery as to how she'd wound up here instead of following Alex through the light.

Wandering through the file cabinets and piles of papers littering the old desks inside the archive room, she walked over to the place where Keats had told her she would find the essential paperwork he needed. As she reached out to grab the folder, she was taken aback by the odd collection of Betamax tapes on this particular wall. Each one had a name affixed to it along with a date; it was eerie, and yet it was like watching a train wreck. Her stomach lurched as she read some of them-some of them were even dated 20 years from now_. How could this be possible?,_ she thought to herself_. These are events that, chronologically, shouldn't have happened yet, couldn't have happened yet-but have they?,_ she wondered.

Then, it was as if the final piece of a complicated puzzle suddenly clicked into place, and a lost key turned slowly, unlocking the Pandora's Box that had remained untouched for almost 14 years.  
>Her hand instinctively reached out to touch the titles sitting side by side on an adjoining shelf:<p>

LOUISE GARDINER-April 15, 1983

LOUISE GARDINER-December 31, 1999

_What did these dates mean? _She tried to think back to the two years prior, but suddenly found that she had no memories of them; that was odd. She furrowed her brow and rubbed her temples with her fingers-_why couldn't she remember?_ It was as if at some point since she'd been here that her life had rebooted, almost like a computer, and had erased all that was prologue to this. She violently shook her head as if to shake loose some fragment of a memory, but nothing happened. Numbly, she picked up the one dated '1983' and inserted it into the player, sitting down.

The tape whirred statically for a moment, and then suddenly an image of Terry Stafford lit up the screen. She cocked her head to the side almost robotically, the memory slowly returning. Then, she saw herself. Her head tilted slowly to the other side. _What was this? Why did Keats have video of her and Terry? Had there been CCTV cameras at that car park?_ Unrelenting, the tape continued, much like a screenplay unfolding:

_Terry. Gene Hunt. ALEX. Louise wielding a firearm, pointing it at Gene's skull and Keats telling her to drop her weapon, all the while having a curious smile on his face as if willing her to continue on. A brief glance in the other direction; a green van. Was that Danny Stafford behind the wheel? Why...? _

Everything was happening at lightning pace. She felt out of her own body in that moment as she watched her life unfold before her; but nothing prepared her for what came next.

The green van struck her. _No-this isn't the way it happened?_ She screamed inside as she watched herself fall to the ground, all but oblivious to the gunshots fired by Gene at its driver.

Louise then felt a sudden stream of blood trickling from her mouth, threatening to drip onto her designer skirt. Her hand flew to her face immediately, touching the red liquid as she realised it was happening to her on the screen at the same time. She let out a strangled sob; she didn't understand this-_what WAS this?_ These images before her had never set foot into the annals of her mind.

Louise watched as Keats pushed everyone aside and knelt beside her, cradling her in his arms, comforting her...welcoming her. And then, she saw her face go slack and the life extinguished from her pale blue eyes. The sound that emanated from Louise upon witnessing this final visual was nearly inhuman in its fear as she jumped out of her chair, knocking it back into the wall. The tape whizzed to a stop, and Louise continued howling, wiping the blood from her mouth before grabbing the nearest bin, vomiting into it. She shook violently, tears and mucus mixing together as she tried in vain to wipe her eyes.

Keats had been witness to this spectacle all along; hidden in the shadows of a far corner of the room, his heart raced in both adrenaline-fueled, maniacal exultation and unbridled gluttony. Calmly, coolly, he walked over, raising her up from the floor and supporting her with his arms.

"Don't you see? _I SAVED YOUR LIFE_."

Louise wrested free and pushed him backwards in wild fear, gesturing to the TV screen.

"I'M DEAD! LOOK AT IT, JIM! 'Saved me..' SAVED ME? HOW? YOU'RE A FUCKING LUNATIC! KEEP AWAY FROM ME!"

Undeterred, Keats stepped closer to her once again.

"Don't you want to know how you are alive now, in this place? Don't you want to know the truth? THIS is what they wanted to hide from you, Louise, the truth about who you really are. I'm giving you a gift! Can't you see? This is your _REBIRTH._"

He smiled broadly, smugly, proud of himself and his creation.

Louise looked vacant as she stared into Keats' face. He took her in his arms and embraced her tenderly while she sobbed into his chest. He stroked her hair hypnotically, kissing the top of her head and chuckling softly to himself.

"There, now-no need for this, eh? Bloody Norah, there's enough tears in here to flood the Red Sea. I brought you BACK to life, if anyone could. You're _HERE,_ with me now instead of that poor excuse for a senior officer, Hunt. _**I**_ wanted you. He didn't; don't you remember how they all stood by in shock, not one of them moving forward to help you? If he had really wanted you in his world, he'd have kept you. Don't you understand?"

He tipped her chin up to meet his glance; her tear and blood-stained face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his life. It was painted with fear, with sickening pain, and he adored it.

"Don't you feel more alive now? _THIS_ is life; not the paltry dregs he was offering you. No one could ever care more deeply about you than I have; you know that, don't you, Louise?"

He was filled with so much joy and pleasure at what he had just done, and no one could take it from him this time.


End file.
